


Red-Handed

by Englishtutor



Series: The Other Doctor Watson [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Lestrade is a good friend, Mary Morstan is awesome, Mary deals with abandonment issues, Mary forges a family, Molly is also awesome, Mrs. Hudson is worried, Mycroft is worried, Sherlock deals with guilt, Sherlock nearly kills John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-26 17:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6248980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which an accident occurs which might change everyone's life; or it might solidify already blossoming relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lestrade

**Author's Note:**

> If you have read this collection of stories on FF, you will have received this particular story in parts, distributed amongst other stories or as one-shots. This is the first time that all of the "Red-Handed" stories appear together in chronological order.

He hated making these kinds of calls; hated it more when it was someone he knew and cared about. The siren of the ambulance ahead was screaming, and he felt his heart was beating with it. He was thankful that Donovan was driving the car so that his hands were free to use his mobile.

“Hullo, Greg?” Mary answered, a question in her voice. Lestrade never called her. Why should he? He could almost feel her fear over the phone.

“Mary, I’m sending a car over for you. Are you at the clinic?”

Warily: “Yes.”

“You need to meet me at the A & E. John’s been hurt.”

Silence. Then, “What happened? Is he all right?” Her voice shook, but she remained calm. Good girl!

“I honestly don’t know what happened. I’m following the ambulance right now. I can tell you he’s been stabbed. Mary, it didn’t look good. You need to brace yourself. And don’t try to get over there by yourself, all right? Wait for my officer. I don’t want to be worrying about your safety on top of everything else. Am I clear?”

A sob. Silence. “Yes, I’ll wait. Thank you, Greg. You’re a good friend,” her unsteady voice came at last. She was trying hard to keep her composure. 

“Is there someone there who can wait with you?” Lestrade asked with concern.

“What? Um, yes, I. . . . Yes, I’ll find someone.”

“I’ll see you there, then.” Lestrade hung up reluctantly, unsure that it was the right thing to do. He had come to like Mary Morstan. She was the perfect match for John—intelligent, funny, patient, and loyal. She not only understood John’s important role in Sherlock’s work, she encouraged him in it. Lestrade only wished his ex-wife had been as supportive as John’s fiancée was proving to be. 

Fiancée. Poor Mary. Was it really only four days ago that Lestrade had attended their engagement party? Lestrade had been struck time and again by the way Mary had managed to gain Sherlock’s approval. Sherlock never approved of anyone, except John. Now he realized that he had never heard Sherlock say a negative thing about her. Whether it was because she had gained Sherlock’s respect, or because Sherlock respected John, Lestrade didn’t know. He only hoped she could help him with the detective, because he had no idea what to do with him.

“We should be taking the freak downtown, not letting him come with,” Donovan interrupted his thoughts. “I mean, we caught him literally bloody red-handed. I warned John he’d come to no good if he stayed friends with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Shut up, Donovan,” Lestrade growled.

OOO

He stood before the door of the waiting room, blocking Mary’s way as she approached down the corridor. Her face was stained with tears, but she was outwardly calm and collected, to his great relief. He needed her. It wasn’t fair, she should be the one to be cosseted and comforted; but he needed her to help him with Sherlock.

“What’s happened? Where’s John?” she asked breathlessly.

“He’s in surgery. They took him in immediately.” He named the surgeon, knowing that as a doctor herself she would want to know who was operating on her fiancé. “All I know is, I got a text from John telling me to bring a team to a certain warehouse, where they’d found that art thief that we’ve been looking for—you know, it’s been in the news for weeks. When we arrived, we’d no sooner surrounded the place when the thief himself comes blazing out the door like the devil was on his heels. He was certain Sherlock and John were chasing him, but they never came out. I went in looking for them, and I found John with a knife in his back and Sherlock covered with blood, in an absolute panic. I’ve never seen him like this before, Mary. He hasn’t spoken a word—just paces around, can’t keep still. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else to do. I need your help calming him down. I need him to tell me what happened.”

Mary rubbed her face with her hands, but her eyes remained dry. She was all business now, all Dr. Morstan, ready to do her job. “Is he hurt? Has anyone examined him?”

“He won’t let anyone near him. “

Lestrade stepped aside and held the door for her. In spite of his best warnings, she gasped.

Sherlock was indeed pacing frantically, and his hands and clothes were soaked in blood. His face was bloody, too, where he’d rubbed it with his gory hands, though this was difficult to see as he was looking only at the floor. He was breathing hard, as if he had been running for a long time. The scent of blood was overpowering. Donovan, who had been keeping an eye on him, stepped over to Lestrade, out of Mary’s way. 

“Oh, my lord,” Mary whispered. But she didn’t falter. She took a deep breath and walked carefully towards him, trying not to startle him.

“Sherlock? It’s Mary, sweetheart. Stop and let me look at you. I need to know if you’re hurt.”

“Sweetheart?” Donovan murmured, and Lestrade muttered, “Shut up, Donovan.”

Mary gently took Sherlock’s bloody hands to examine them, but he snatched them away. “No,” he groaned. “Leave me alone.”

“I can’t. I need to know if you’re hurt,” Mary repeated. “Please look at me.” 

He raised his eyes to hers. He seemed to register her presence for the first time. “Mary? O god, Mary, I’m so sorry.”

“Are you hurt?” she said more urgently, insistently.

“No, it’s John’s. . . .” he looked at his hands. “Blood. It’s all his. All John’s. So much. . . .”

He tried to start his agitated pacing again, but Mary held him by one arm and touched his face. It was cold and slick with sweat. “You’re going into shock. I need you to sit down immediately.”

“No, no, I tried, I can’t. I can’t be still,” his breathing was agitated and he looked panicked. “It’s all my fault, Mary. I stabbed him.”

For a moment the world stopped. Then, “I don’t believe that,” Mary stated, quietly but firmly.

Sherlock stared at his hands in revulsion. “The knife was in my hand, and then it was in his back. Beneath right rib cage, perforated bowel, couldn’t stop the bleeding, he said not to remove the knife. . . .” His expression was heart-breaking, and he looked at Mary as if expecting to be pushed away, shouted at, rejected.

Mary gently held his face in her hands instead, looking into his eyes. She called over her shoulder to Lestrade for help. “He’s going to pass out. I need him to sit down.”

“He NEEDS to be locked up,” Donovan snapped.

“Shut up, Donovan,” Lestrade commanded sharply, walking over to take Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock pulled away, doubled over, and was promptly sick on the floor. Lestrade held him upright as his knees buckled under him. Between them, Lestrade and Mary managed to get him into a chair. Mary pushed his head down to his knees.

“I need a warm blanket and a lot of wet towels, Greg,” Mary said calmly, rubbing Sherlock’s back and making him keep his head down. Her jaw was tight and she had tears in her eyes, but she was still in doctor mode. Her composure was astounding.

“Donovan, get something to clean that up,” Lestrade said, as he was striding out the door to the nurse’s station. He noticed her mouth opening as if to protest as he swept by her, but he ignored her. When he got back with the supplies Mary needed, Donovan was on her knees with a wad of paper towels and Mary was on her knees in front of Sherlock’s chair, speaking in a low, soothing tone. He threw the blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders and stood there, holding the towels, waiting for orders. 

“Breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slowly, slowly. Do it with me, sweetheart. Like this.” She breathed in and out several times, and Sherlock tried to regulate his breathing to match hers. “Good, good.” She reached for his wrist, but again he jerked his hands away from her. “All right. It’s all right,” she murmured gently. She reached up and took his pulse at his neck instead. “Vital signs are stabilizing. Good.”

She took a wet towel from Lestrade. “I’m going to clean your face, now, all right? It’ll be a little cold, but it should feel good. Good, good. You’re doing fine.” She took another towel. “Now I’m going to clean your hands. I know you don’t want me to touch them, but it will make you feel better.” She took one of his hands, but he instantly panicked and stood up, swaying dangerously, and tried to move away from her.

“You can’t. You can’t. It’s wrong,” he cried hoarsely. His knees began to sag and his eyes were unfocused.

Mary stood up and grabbed his arms again. Her tone changed. “Sherlock Holmes! You will do exactly as I say and nothing else. Is that clear? You will sit down in this chair and you will stay there until I say otherwise.”

He looked at her determined face, trying to focus. Then he collapsed into the chair.

Mary’s voice returned to the soothing cadence she had been using before and she got back down on the floor. “That’s better. Put your head down again, sweetheart. Breathe like I showed you. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slowly. With me. That’s it, good.” 

Lestrade glanced back at Donovan, who looked back at him sullenly, arms crossed over her chest. She was not impressed, certain this was all an act. He sighed and turned back to watching Mary.

“There now, sweetheart. We’ll try again. I need to clean your hands.”

Sherlock did not pull away this time, strangely cowed by Mary. But he did weakly protest, “No, it’s wrong. You should not be the one to clean John’s blood off my hands. It’s wrong. I can’t let you.”

With that, Mary almost lost her composure. Lestrade saw silent tears stream down her face as she visibly struggled not to weep aloud. She pressed her lips together tightly until she regained control of herself. “Who better,” she began, but her voice quavered and she stopped, breathed carefully, and tried again. “Who better to do it than the one who cares for you both?” she whispered at last. 

He seemed to think this over. Then he held out his hands, and she washed the blood from them, tears dripping unrestrained. Lestrade noticed that she seemed to caress the reddened towel, the only bit of John that she could reach. 

She wiped her eyes and turned back to Lestrade. “His sense of smell is so sensitive. I think he’ll do better if I can get as much of the blood off of him as possible. Can you find a shirt or something he can wear? And some more wet towels?”

“Here,” Lestrade handed her the rest of the towels in his hand. “Donovan, get a hospital gown from the nurse’s station.” He didn’t turn to see if Donovan complied, but he heard the door open and shut. Then he helped Mary take off Sherlock’s shirt, stiff and gruesome, and clean the blood from his chest. By the time they had finished, Donovan had returned, and they put the gown on the eerily subdued Sherlock and re-covered him with the blanket. 

“Keep your head down,” Mary reminded him and took his pulse again. “Good. You’re doing well. I’ll let you sit up in a moment.” She stood up, unsteady on her feet, and stretched her cramped legs. Lestrade took her arm to help steady her, and she nodded to him gratefully.

“This is what shock feels like,” Sherlock said tonelessly. “Why am I in shock? I wasn’t hurt.”

“It’s the body’s natural response to trauma. It’s perfectly normal. You’ll be all right,” Mary assured him.

“I’ve never responded to trauma in this way before,” he stated softly.

“I know. But it’s John, this time, isn’t it?” Mary replied quietly. “I’d be worried if you hadn’t had a reaction like this, to be honest.” She put her hand on his head comfortingly, and Lestrade wondered at her ability to continue dealing so compassionately with the man who had knifed her lover. If he had not admired Mary Morstan before, he certainly did now. The woman had steel in her spine and balm in her soul.

Mary checked Sherlock’s pulse once more, then let him sit up. “But you’re not to stand up yet. Just sit there quietly and rest,” she told him.

“Can he talk about it now, do you think?” Lestrade asked her. 

“If he feels up to it. Do you want to tell us what happened now, sweetheart?”

Sherlock could not meet her eyes, but he began to talk, without emotion. “We entered the warehouse where I had deduced the art thief was keeping the paintings. And we found him, cutting the canvases out of their frames and preparing them for shipping. He ran, we followed. He dropped something. I picked it up. It was the knife he’d been using to cut the canvases out of the frames. He entered a corridor from which there was no outlet, but there were a number of offices opening off of it on both sides. John went first, opening each door and checking inside.” 

Lestrade frowned. What Sherlock meant by this, but was not saying, was that John had gone first because he was carrying his very illegal firearm. It had not been found on the scene, which meant it had to be hidden on Sherlock’s person somewhere. Lestrade decided not to ask about it. Better not to know.

“I was following, examining the knife. It had bits of canvas caught on the serrated edge, perfect evidence. John reached the end of the corridor, but before he could open the final door, it flew open and the thief shoved John hard, backwards, into me, and ran past us. He shoved John into me.” Sherlock’s voice broke and he fell silent. Tears stood in his eyes.

Mary gasped and pressed her hand against her mouth. She drew in a shuddering breath and sank into the chair next to Sherlock. All the strength had gone out of her. She looked ill.

Sherlock now gazed at Mary, his eyes haunted with regret. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I was holding the knife out; I was looking at it, not at what was ahead. I didn’t drop it in time. If I hadn’t been looking at it. . . .”

Mary bit her lips, trying to regain her composure. She put her hand on his shoulder. “It isn’t your fault. You have fast reflexes, but you’re not super human, Sherlock. No one could have dropped the knife fast enough to prevent an accident.”

“I should not have been holding it up in the first place. I killed him, Mary.” He closed his eyes, and the unshed tears ran down his face.

“Don’t say that!” Mary said sharply, and he winced. “John’s not dead. He’s in surgery. He’s going to be all right. He wouldn’t leave us. He won’t leave us.”

She took his hand, and Lestrade was not sure whether she did so for his comfort or for her own. He felt uncomfortable, witnessing this, neither could he move away.

Sherlock went on. “It’s my fault he’s injured. I shouldn’t have been holding the knife at all.”

“Then you would not have been doing your job. Collecting evidence is part of what you do. It was an accident, Sherlock. You can’t blame yourself. If the knife had been pointed towards you when John fell into you, would you have blamed him for your being stabbed?”

Sherlock shivered and looked down and stayed silent. Lestrade stood uncertainly. His business here was done, but he couldn’t leave them to sit alone, waiting for news.

“You go on,” he said to Donovan. “Book that art thief and write the report. I won’t be back today.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, subdued. “Do I charge him with attempted manslaughter?”

“For now,” he sighed, hoping not to have to take the “attempted” part off the charges later.

Now he watched Sherlock and Mary, sitting side by side. Mary still had one of the bloody towels in her lap, stroking it absently. What would happen to them if John didn’t make it? Sherlock would not be able to shed himself of his guilt. And Mary, made a widow before she was ever a wife. It wasn’t fair. Such a stupid, senseless accident. Lestrade sat in the chair on the other side of Mary and settled in for a long wait.

Hours passed. None of them spoke. But each moment was an encouragement, for each moment without word was a moment in which John was still alive. When a nurse arrived with news at last, Lestrade was the one who went to the door to speak with her. He angled his body in order to be able to see the nurse and still keep an eye on his friends. Mary was watching him, alert, her face a study in hope and fear. Sherlock kept his face down and hidden, but his body was tensed with intent listening.

“He’s in recovery,” the nurse began to explain. There was a lot more, about reconstructive surgery and peritonitis and antibiotics. Lestrade interrupted. “But will he be all right?”

The nurse smiled slightly. “Barring unforeseen circumstances, yes, he should fully recover in six weeks or so.”

A sob of relief escaped Mary’s throat, and Lestrade saw her hide her face in Sherlock’s shoulder and weep gently. He saw Sherlock pat her hair awkwardly, unsure of what to do but trying to console her. 

“Mary, he’s going to be all right. You don’t need to cry now,” he said encouragingly. She laughed through her sobs. 

“I’m crying now because I couldn’t before. Nurse, when may I see him?” Mary begged.

“He’ll be a long time in recovery, but I’ll come get you when we move him to a private room.”

Mary dropped her towel and threw her arms around Sherlock with joy. “I told you he’d be all right. He wouldn’t leave us.”

Then she stood and hugged Lestrade as well. “Thank you, Greg. You’ve been a wonderful friend.”

“Just glad I could help,” Lestrade smiled. What a remarkable woman Mary Morstan was, he reflected, watching her leave the waiting room to freshen up. Not many could do what she had done that day, with such perfect composure. It had been a privilege to see. 

“Come on, Sherlock, I’ll buy you coffee downstairs,” Lestrade offered. They went out together, side by side.


	2. Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly finds out about The Accident and rushes to help. Also, she slaps Anderson.

“Have you heard what happened to Watson?” she heard Anderson say as he perused the contents of the folder he was holding. Molly looked up from her filing cabinet, pausing in her search for the additional records he’d come to request. She knew Anderson only by sight and reputation; knew only that he was Lestrade’s forensics expert and that Sherlock disliked the man intensely. Now the look on his face made her skin crawl with dread.

“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.

“He got himself stabbed in the back this morning,” Anderson told her with some satisfaction. “And you’ll never guess who it was did the stabbing. Sherlock Holmes. I always said Watson would come to no good, following that freak around.”

Molly stared at him, trying to make sense of what he had said. Sherlock, stab John in the back? It wasn’t possible. “If this is some kind of . . . if you’re having a joke, it isn’t . . . ,” she stammered, aghast.

“No joke,” Anderson assured her. “I got it from Donovan, right from the scene of the crime. She and the Boss found Watson with a knife in the back, and the freak hovering over him covered in blood.”

Molly’s hand flew to her mouth to cover her horrified cry. “Oh no, is he . . . he isn’t dead, is he?” she gasped.

Anderson shrugged, turning back to the report he was reading. “I don’t know any details,” he replied casually. “Although, if he had died, I imagine I’d have heard by now.”

Molly felt ill, wondering what kind of twisted, callous mind considered the death of a colleague as a “detail” too minor to inquire about. “What hospital . . . do you know where they would have taken him? Is . . . is Sherlock with him?”

Anderson looked up at her, smirking. “Oh, that’s right, you’re a friend of theirs, aren’t you? I have no idea where they took him. And I should think the freak would be in custody right now. I did hear that the Boss has been with Watson’s latest tart all . . . .” His words were cut off by a resounding slap. Molly stared at the hand-shaped red mark on Anderson’s face, and then at her stinging hand which had seemingly struck out of its own accord.

Anderson’s shock turned into rage. “You little bitch! I . . .”

“How can you be so vile? You think . . . you think this is . . . is funny? Get out,” Molly said tightly between clenched teeth, trying to control her shaking voice. “Get out of my office. And don’t . . . don’t ever speak of my friends in that. . . . that tone in my . . . my hearing again.”

He hesitated. She drew herself up to her full height, her anger making her bold. “I’ll call security. Get out,” she pointed to the door.

“I haven’t got the information I came for,” he protested. 

Molly’s patience was at an end. “Oh, get out!” she cried, almost in tears. “Just get out!”

He left, and she slumped into her chair, tears now running down her face unchecked. She wept for John, who might or might not be dead or dying. She wept for Mary, her new friend, who was so afraid of losing people and who might have just lost the most important person in her life. She wept most of all for Sherlock. However this accident happened (and Molly had no doubt it had been an accident), she knew Sherlock would be devastated. John was his only friend; the only person he trusted. How must he have felt, covered in his best friend’s blood, watching John’s life drain away before his eyes, with Donovan standing over him accusing him of murder?

“What can I do?” she whispered to herself. “Whom can I ask?” She couldn’t call Mary. What if John was dead? How could Molly call her friend and ask her to say those words aloud, into a phone? She couldn’t call Sherlock, for the same reason. How could she find out where her friends were so that she could go to them? Hadn’t Anderson said that Greg was with Mary? Molly had the detective inspector’s phone number in her mobile. They had become fairly well acquainted through their association with Sherlock and John in the past few years. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind if she called him.

“Lestrade,” his voice came, brisk and all business.

“Greg? This . . . this is Molly. Molly Hooper. I just . . . just heard about John being hurt?”

“Well, bad news travels fast, doesn’t it?” he said grimly. “Yeah, John was stabbed in the back this morning. It was a near thing; he’s been in surgery most of the day. But they have him patched up now. They say he’ll be all right.”

“Oh, thank God,” Molly whispered. “I . . . is Sherlock. . . ?”

“He’s been in a right state,” Greg informed her. “But he’ll be okay, now that John’s out of danger. Mary’s taken him in hand. She’s a marvel, Mary is!” Molly covered her mouth, overcome with relief. Her friends had been through hell, but they would be all right. 

“Listen, Molly, I’m really glad you called. I need to take Sherlock home to get cleaned up. John’s in recovery now, but when they move him to a private room, Sherlock will want to see him, and they won’t let him, state he’s in now. But I really don’t want to leave Mary here alone. Would you mind coming and staying with her while I’m gone?”

“That’s why I called, to find out where she is so I could see her,” Molly explained. Of course, who she’d really wanted to see was Sherlock, but there was no reason to tell Greg this. 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

By the time she reached the hospital, John had already been transferred to his private room. Molly joined Lestrade in the hallway, hovering by the door, watching Mary and Sherlock stand over John’s bed hand in hand.

“He’s not supposed to be in there,” Lestrade confided to Molly in a low tone. “I’m the look-out. Mary figures we have about five minutes before a nurse comes by.”

“What happened?” Molly breathed, not wanting the two in the room to overhear. She peered in at John, saw his ashen face; he was turned on his side and propped with pillows, the wound in his back swathed in bandages. His vital signs were clearly seen on the monitors, clearly heard as mechanical beeps; and yet Mary held her hand over his heart to feel it beating, as if touch were the only sense that could reassure.

“They were chasing a suspect,” Lestrade murmured quietly. “Sherlock had a knife in his hand, a piece of evidence he’d found. The suspect gave John a shove—pushed him right onto the knife.”

Molly nodded grimly. “I knew it would have to have been something like that.”

“I’ve never seen Sherlock in such a state. He had a panic attack, then went into shock. Mary’s the only one who could do anything with him.” Lestrade continued.

They continued their watch in silence. Inside the room, Mary was speaking softly to Sherlock, still holding his hand. “You said something to me earlier. You said he told you not to pull out the knife, didn’t you?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes remaining on his friend in the bed.

“He was conscious, then?” She received another nod in reply. “How long was he conscious?”

Sherlock drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The entire time,” he said hoarsely.

Mary’s eyes closed for a long moment. 

"It's a good thing he was, Mary,” Sherlock continued bleakly. “He saved his own life, telling me what to do. I . . . I panicked. I would have instinctually pulled the filthy thing out of him if he hadn’t stopped me. I would have killed him.”

“Stop,” Mary ordered him gently. “You saved his life by doing exactly what he told you without hesitation. He’s the doctor, not you. You’re not to be blamed for not having the medical experience he has. He’s going to fine because you helped him.” She took the hand she was holding and placed it over John’s heart. “Feel that? He’s alive. He’s going to be all right now.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing himself to believe it.

“Now you need to go on and get cleaned up,” Mary told him. “If a doctor came in here and saw such a filthy person in a sterile ward—oh, but wait: I AM a doctor! Go home, Sweetheart. We’ll still be here when you get back.”

He nodded and turned to the door. Lestrade and Molly stepped back, trying not to let on that they had been listening to this private exchange. Sherlock looked at Molly and almost smiled.

“Molly. Thank you for coming. Mary needs you,” he said quietly. She could not stop herself from hugging him, he looked so lost. He did not hug her back, but neither did he reject her embrace. Then the two men continued down the hallway, in a hurry now to leave so that they might return the sooner, and she trailed behind them a bit, drawn with Sherlock like a leaf caught in the wind. But then she caught herself, stopped herself, and headed slowly back to John’s room. She was to be here for Mary. She needed to concentrate on Mary. 

She and Mary had begun a friendship in the past two months, an alliance of sorts born of their mutual dedication to Sherlock and John. They understood each other, and that had become important to her. Molly remembered Mary and John’s engagement party---just four days ago, wasn’t it? How happy they had looked together. How pleased Molly had been for them. She could not imagine two people better suited to one another. 

But as she approached John’s room, she saw the door was now shut. She peered in through the observation window, but she could not see Mary. Why would Mary not be at John’s side? Molly grew worried. Lestrade had marveled at the strength Mary had shown all that long day. He couldn’t know, not knowing what Molly knew, how truly excruciating the day must have been for Mary. Molly pushed the door open and looked around for her friend.

Mary was on the floor in a corner of the room, knees drawn up to her chin, her head hidden in her arms. She was violently shaking with silent sobs. Molly rushed to her side and dropped to the floor, sliding her arms around the suffering girl.

“Oh, my dear,” she whispered. “My poor, poor dear. You’ve been needing to do this all day, haven’t you, and didn’t dare. Get it out now, it’s all right. Molly’s here.” She cradled the sobbing Mary, rocking her gently and crooning comfort to her. They stayed that way until her legs went numb beneath her and her back ached; and she found she was weeping with her friend in sympathy so that they were soon one sodden mess together on the floor.

At last the storm subsided, and Molly helped Mary unsteadily to her feet, quite wobbly herself, and put her in a chair. She wet some washcloths in the adjoining bath and the girls spent a moment cleaning their red, swollen faces.

“I’m sorry,” Mary gasped at last. “You didn’t sign up for that, did you?”

“I did, actually,” Molly said loyally. “I knew you’d need to do this as soon as the men were out of the way. You’ve been so brave all day. You don’t need to be brave with me.”

“Thank you,” Mary smiled sadly at her friend. “I . . . I hardly know how to feel. I’ve been so terrified all day, and now I’m so grateful he’s alive. Oh, Molly, I almost lost him. It was so close.” Mary scrubbed at her face with her washcloth again.

“I know,” Molly soothed. “But look at him. He’s still here.” They both turned their eyes to John’s peaceful face; he was blissfully unaware of the tumult of emotions he’d been the source of that day.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Then Molly asked, “Does he know? About your . . . problem? Have you talked about it?”

“My irrational fears, you mean?” Mary’ dimples deepened. “Yes, we talked about it the night after that time in the morgue; you know, when they were so late. He saw I was upset and asked about it. He’s so good. He understands what I need. I only asked that he try to let me know if he’s going to be late. But every day when we’re apart, every few hours he makes sure to contact me—usually by text. He always comes up with a legitimate reason—he’s updating me on a case, or asking a question, or some other thing that just can’t wait, so I won’t feel patronized. I mean, we don’t talk about it, but I know that’s why he does it, all the same.”

Molly teased gently. “You really picked the wrong chap, didn’t you? You should be marrying someone with a nice, safe, desk job; someone who never runs risks or comes home late for dinner.”

“Oh, it’s my curse,” Mary chuckled softly. “I can’t bear boring people. I’m an adrenaline junkie, just like he is. The truth is, when I thought he was just an ordinary doctor, I wasn’t all that interested in knowing him. But then he and Sherlock let me follow them around when they were solving the case of my father’s disappearance, and I met the soldier. Watching the joy he took in the chase; seeing his steadiness and daring in a gun-fight; experiencing the excitement of his life—I was done for. Before we even started dating, the thought of losing him was just too painful to contemplate. If he’d never asked me out—if he’d ignored me entirely-- I’d still be completely mad for him.”

Molly nodded solemnly. She understood the sentiment only too well. 

“I’m sorry,” Mary sighed perceptively. “You didn’t need to hear all that, did you? I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m fine,” Molly assured her. “I’m always fine.” Her candid gaze met Mary’s wise one, and they sat in silent communion for some minutes.

“You’re one to lecture about picking the wrong chap,” Mary chided affectionately. “It is worth it?”

Molly challenged in return, “Wouldn’t it be?”

Mary turned her eyes from Molly’s direct gaze and looked at John, brushed her fingers through his hair. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, trembling. For a moment, she let her guard down, and Molly could see all of Mary’s heart reflected in her face: respect and admiration, desire and friendship, and a sincere willingness to do anything for him, give anything to him without hesitation and without holding back. Molly wondered if a person could so easily discern all those feelings in her own expression whenever he was in the room. But Mary’s love was requited completely; would it be worth it to her if it weren’t?

Mary turned knowing eyes back to Molly and nodded. “Yes,” she said confidently. “It would be. HE would be.”

Molly nodded, validated. “Okay,” she simply agreed.


	3. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary faces her fear of losing those most important to her. And Sherlock brings her tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ennui Enigma for the initial idea for this chapter.

The tentative touch of a hand on her shoulder pulled her halfway out of her nightmare with a gasp. Subconsciously, her own hand reached up and grasped the hand that was gently shaking her, but immediately she let go and pushed it away. Even in her sleep, she knew that this was not John’s hand, and she only wanted John. The persistent beeping of the monitors and the antiseptic smell filled her senses. Dragging herself into full wakefulness, she opened her eyes and looked at Sherlock in a haze of confusion. The studied look of irritation on his face barely concealed his concern. Mary was not fooled.

She looked around at the hospital room and reality slammed into her awareness with a ruthlessness that took her breath away. She had fallen asleep in the armchair by John’s bed. John. John, whom she’d almost lost today. John, who was the entire world. The events of the day crowded back into her mind all in an instant: Greg’s call, informing her that John had been stabbed in the back on a case that morning; Sherlock in a frantic state, covered with John’s blood and going into shock in the hospital waiting room; and then all the waiting. Waiting to see if John would survive the trauma and the blood loss of his wound. Waiting to see if his surgery would be successful. Waiting for him to be released from recovery. And now, they were waiting for him to wake up.

“You were dreaming,” Sherlock informed her in accusing tone. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but you were crying and . . . sobbing . . . audibly. It was annoying.”

Mary palmed the tears from her face and smiled at him, interpreting his remarks to mean that he was worried about her and wanted to make her feel better. She hoped she had not hurt his feelings by thrusting his hand away so abruptly. She and Sherlock had spent a good part of the day holding hands, trying to comfort each other as they waited for news of John.

She reached over to the bed and grasped John’s hand, gazing at his peaceful face. He looked so young, composed in rest. She knew sleep was the best healer, and yet she longed for him to wake up and look at her, just to let her know he was really going be all right.

“I dreamed he was gone,” she whispered to Sherlock, not taking her eyes from John’s face. “He promised he wouldn’t leave me, but he left me alone.” She turned accusing eyes to her friend. “You disappeared, too. You both left me.”

Sherlock frowned. “I am not to be held responsible for what I might do your nightmares,” he informed her. “Obviously John is not gone, and neither am I.”

Mary laughed shakily. “Thank God for that. I’m glad you stayed with us, Sweetheart.” She took the detective’s hand in her free hand and squeezed it gratefully. People had been coming and going all day—Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. But it was now nearing two o’clock in the morning, and they were alone, listening to the monitors and waiting for John.

Mary stood and tried to work out the kinks in her back from sleeping in the chair. “Sherlock, would you mind getting us some tea. I’m perishing for a cuppa.” 

Sherlock made a face. “The tea here is sub-standard at best,” he protested.

“It’s what we have. Unless you want to go get a take-away from somewhere,” Mary insisted. “Please.” She looked him in the eye, pleading with him to understand. 

He stared back, deducing, and finally nodded. “You haven’t been alone with him since he got out of surgery. You wish to have a few moments to yourself, I can’t imagine why. I’ll give you twenty minutes.” He half-smiled wryly and walked out. Mary’s conscience smote her. Sherlock was as terrified of losing John as she was. This was pure selfishness on her part, and he knew it, and yet he was willing to give her this bit of time. How anyone could believe the detective was cold and heartless was beyond her understanding.

She returned to her chair beside John, her fiancé of less than one week, and gripped his hand in both of hers, pressing it against her tear-stained cheek. In the six months they had been seeing each other, she had become intimately familiar with his hands, knowing each callous and tiny scar and the feel of his fingers laced through hers. She sighed and kissed his palm, holding his hand against her lips for long moment. It had been so close, and she was so grateful for his life.

This was exactly the kind of situation that she had been dreading. Two months ago, she had doubted she would able to handle such a close call. Two months ago, she was barely able to handle his being three hours late for a date! But today had been terrifying, and she had not lost control of herself. She had, she admitted, had a minor melt-down after the crisis was over and had soaked poor Molly’s blouse. But other than that, she had remained strong and calm throughout—and surely she had deserved the release of that torrent of tears after being stoic for most of the day.

“We did it, John,” she whispered to him. “You kept your promise and didn’t leave me; and I managed not to get myself fitted with a straightjacket. You were right. I can do this. I can handle anything if you’re with me.”

To her joy, he stirred a bit and mumbled, “Good . . . work.”

“Oh, John!” she gasped with relieved laughter, and to her horror began to weep again, hiding her face in his palm. “Thank God!”

“Sorry . . . careless. . . .” he struggled to open his eyes.

“Silly. It was an accident. Not your fault,” Mary was laughing and crying at once. “Good job not dying. That was well done.”

He gave up on eye-opening and let a quirky smile suffice. “Anything . . . for you.”

“And you’ve no idea how many panic attacks I didn’t have today,” she added proudly. 

His hand, which she still held against her face, gently stroked her cheek. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, drifting off to sleep again.

By the time Sherlock returned with the admittedly abominable tea, Mary’s composure was intact and her face cleaned up, ready to face whatever the future might have in store. She and John would be invincible together, hand in hand.


	4. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft learns Mary's definition of family. There is also affectionate teasing.

He reviewed the file from Scotland Yard once more as his driver negotiated the limousine to the hospital where John Watson had been taken the day before, after being stabbed by Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft frowned over the arrest reports. The art thief his brother had been chasing was charged with the attempted manslaughter of the unfortunate doctor. But quite honestly, the accident wasn’t anyone’s fault. The thief could not have known that Sherlock was holding a knife when he shoved John backwards into the detective in a desperate attempt to escape. Sherlock, though foolish to have been looking down at the knife in his hand instead of what was ahead of him, could not have anticipated that the thief would suddenly burst out of the office door and push John into him. John could not have avoided either the shove or the knife. An unfortunate series of events, all in all.

The cypher in the equation was Mary Morstan. Her relationship with his brother’s flatmate had been a cause of concern to Mycroft, but the British Government had swiftly dealt with this threat to his brother’s well-being by interviewing the young woman within hours of their engagement. She had convincingly reassured him that her intentions were the same as his own: Sherlock’s and John’s continued partnership was important to her and she was enabling John to quit his job at the medical clinic in order to work with Sherlock full time. Mycroft had tacitly approved of this arrangement. With John as his brother’s keeper, Mycroft’s life was greatly simplified.

But would Mary’s good will towards Sherlock still exist after this shocking display of carelessness on the detective’s part? Would any woman feel comfortable with the man she professed to love working day by day in the company of such a loose cannon as Sherlock Holmes? How if she now realized the full extent of the danger John would constantly be subject to and insisted on the two parting ways? Any sane young woman, Mycroft thought, would run, not walk, away from such an intimate association with chaos personified.

Mycroft exited his vehicle at the door of the hospital and took the lift, hoping he was not too late to mend the rift that must certainly have opened between his outrageous brother and John Watson’s charming young fiancée. He was ready to use every bit of diplomatic ability of which he was capable for damage control. Sherlock was safer working with John. Their association must be maintained, Mary Morstan’s sensibilities notwithstanding.

Hesitating before John’s door, he steeled himself for the confrontation. Politicians and diplomats were simple to manipulate: devoted lovers, he had found, were more difficult to negotiate with. Women tended to turn into vicious she-bears in the face of a threat to their loved ones. He regretted this turn of events deeply. In his one encounter with Mary, she had proven herself to be clever, honest, thoughtful, and kind, but not one to suffer fools gladly. He admired her, in spite of himself, and in any other circumstance would enjoy a lively conversation with her. In another life, they could, perhaps, have been . . . friends.

He knocked. At her summons, he opened the door and stepped inside. She looked up at him and gave him a warm and welcoming smile.

“Hullo, Mycroft! How lovely of you to come by and see us.”

Mycroft pulled his lips into a smile of his own invention. Warm welcomes, in his experience, portended demands of some kind. Was Mary planning to sue Sherlock? Was she thinking of using this situation to extort money from him? But no, unless his deducing powers had left him entirely, he could see that her friendly greeting was genuine. But then, she was by all accounts a fair-minded young woman. She would not blame the elder brother for the negligence of the younger.

“How is our patient?” he asked suavely, putting on his most sincere look of concern. And the concern was not truly feigned, for Mycroft actually liked John Watson and truly wished no harm to him.

“He’s doing well,” Mary said. “It’ll be a long recovery, but recover he will, thank God.”

“I’m gratified to hear it,” Mycroft replied in relief. “I can’t imagine how distressing it would be to Sherlock to know he had caused permanent harm to his friend by his own hand.”

Mary’s eyebrows lifted superciliously. “A great many people would be distressed by John’s demise, however it came about,” she commented calmly. “You might even have shed a tear over his coffin, to have lost the one man in the world who can successfully tell you off.” The corner of her mouth trembled in a suppressed smirk. Mycroft felt certain she was not being serious. Was it possible she was teasing him? No one had ever teased Mycroft Holmes before.

John moved restlessly in his sleep, and Mary turned away from her guest to gently soothe him with soft words and loving hands. Mycroft felt uncomfortable, witnessing this intimate display of tenderness. He decided to come to the point so that he could leave the sooner. “Where is Sherlock?” he asked abruptly.

Mary did not turn away from John, but said distractedly, “I sent him home.” She was leaning over her fiancé to give him a dose of morphine.

Mycroft’s heart fell. So his fears were valid. Mary wanted nothing more to do with the man she had entrusted with her lover’s safety and who had failed to keep him from harm. “I am sorry to hear it,” he said, and the regret in his voice was genuine. “I had hoped that, as this was clearly an accident, you might be forgiving of my brother’s ineptitude and continue to encourage his and John’s friendship.”

Mary turned back to Mycroft with widened eyes. “Mycroft Holmes!” she cried in consternation. “How long have we known each other now? An entire week, by my accounting! And yet you still don’t know me any better than that? I’m very disappointed!” she scolded cheerfully.

Mycroft was taken aback. Mary’s dimples had deepened in her amusement and her eyes sparkled with mischief. This was, he realized, what was called ‘affectionate teasing’. Such a thing had never happened to him before in all his life. She was completely disarming him.

“I beg your pardon,” he began, but she interrupted him.

“I sent Sherlock home because he was exhausted from sitting up with me all night. I managed to sleep a bit here in this chair, but I’m sure he never closed his eyes the entire time he was here. He’ll rest a bit, and then he’ll come back and sit with John while I go get a break. We’re in this together, you see. We’re taking care of each other.” Disconcertingly, Mary walked right into Mycroft’s personal space and took his hand in hers. She led him to the chair and then perched herself on the edge of John’s bed.

“There now, that’s better,” she grinned at his discomfiture as he sat down. “We’ve really not had much opportunity to get to know each other, have we? We should be great friends, you and I. We have so much in common, after all.”

Mycroft blinked. “Have we?” he said bleakly. This was not going at all as he’d pictured. How had things gotten so out of his control? It was not, he thought, a bad thing. Just . . . odd.

Mary sighed and smiled at him gently. “When people get married, they don’t just marry an individual, do they? They marry into a family. I’ve never had a family of my own, so I’m quite excited about joining John’s little family.”

“I shouldn’t think Harry Watson was anyone to get excited about,” Mycroft murmured dryly.

“Hmm,” Mary frowned. “I haven’t met Harry yet. She’s taken it into her head to dislike me, sight unseen. No, I wasn’t thinking of Harry when I said that. Sherlock is John’s family now. And so, by extension, are you. We should get along famously, you and I—we both love Sherlock and have his best interests at heart.”

In spite of himself, Mycroft felt captured in Mary’s affectionate web. “I’ve never been much good at ‘family’”, he admitted hesitantly.

“And I’ve never been in one. We’ll learn what it means together, shall we?” the irrepressible Mary responded.

“I suppose I have no choice,” Mycroft admitted. He knew when he’d been bested. And he wasn’t sure he really considered this a defeat. In fact, it felt rather like success.


	5. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock deals with his guilt over nearly killing John. And Mary serves tea.

He sat on the sofa late into the night, in the dark, thinking. This guilt-thing was beyond annoying. How did other people do it? How did normal people deal with their almost-fatal mistakes without going mad? He so seldom made a mistake, he’d never really learnt what to do when he made one.

One would think that forgiveness would be the cure. As soon as John had awakened from his drugged sleep, Sherlock had said those difficult, important words. “I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock had said. How inadequate those words sounded. They did not convey the smallest fraction of the depth of remorse he was experiencing. I’m sorry I stabbed you in the back. How could mere words make things right?

John, still sluggish from the many hours of anaesthesia he’d been subjected to during his long surgery, and still heavily drugged for the pain, had tried to focus on his friend’s face and managed a crooked smile. “Not your fault,” he had mumbled. Of course he had. He didn’t know the whole truth, did he? Sherlock had been behind John as they chased the thief through the warehouse. John couldn’t know that Sherlock had been distracted, looking down at the knife in his hand instead of focusing on what was in front of him. That moment of distraction had nearly cost his friend his life. His best friend. His only friend. It was unconscionable. John—strong, capable, reliable John—always did an exemplary job watching Sherlock’s back. But when it was time for Sherlock to watch John’s . . . . The detective stirred himself and realized he was chilled to the bone. He deftly built a fire in the fireplace and stood before the flames, soaking in the warmth and thinking.

John had spent a week in hospital on IV antibiotics to fight the peritonitis that had set in so quickly. The filthy knife and the bowel perforation had unleashed a potentially lethal infection that only the timely use of powerful antibiotics and John’s own over-all excellent health had fought off in a remarkably short time. But John had been so ill that week that Sherlock could not bring himself to talk to his friend about serious matters. 

And now John was home, settled that morning into Sherlock’s room to spare him the second flight of stairs and to put him nearer the bathroom. And Mary had moved into John’s room, a fact to which Sherlock was still reconciling himself. She was the only reason John had been allowed to come home after only one week. As a doctor, she could give him proper care. But she also needed to go back to work, and so Sherlock was to be John’s care provider for eight hours a day. Tomorrow would be the first day Sherlock would be alone with John since The Accident, as Mary and Lestrade persisted in calling it. The Accident, indeed; as if it had been no one’s fault. He sank into his chair and sighed. He’d come so close to losing John. It was unthinkable.

Since The Accident, Sherlock’s hard drive had been caught up in a feedback loop, replaying those horrifying few minutes over and over through his memory. He constantly re-experienced every sound, sight, scent: John’s astonished gasp as the thief pushed him; the weight of John’s body falling into him, knocking them both to the floor; the gush of red warmth over his hands; the shocking, coppery smell filling his senses. His own sudden panic as he, Sherlock Holmes, found himself unable to think of what to do; John’s rasping voice weakly directing his own first aid. Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration, trying to delete the memories, in vain.

A crash from the bedroom brought him abruptly to his feet and he found himself at John’s side so quickly he could not remember the movement in between. Fortunately, John had not fallen; he had merely turned over the nightstand by the bed as he tried to get up by himself. Sherlock shook his head, frowning down at his friend perched unsteadily on the edge of the bed.

“Doctors are useless as patients,” he intoned. “Why didn’t you call me if you needed to get up?”

John smiled sheepishly. “I know you haven’t slept much lately. I wanted you to have your rest.”

Sherlock grasped his friend by the elbows and helped him to stand. He watched John pick up the bulb of his abdominal drain and nonchalantly tuck it into his pyjama pocket. Sherlock could not feel casual about this tangible reminder of John’s near-demise. The fact of a rubber tube coming directly out of his friend’s insides was unsettling, although admittedly rather fascinating. Together they made their way carefully across the hall so that John could take care of business. Then Sherlock started him on the long trek back to bed.

“Don’t,” John protested. “I’m actually feeling better than I have since The Accident. And oddly enough, it’s exhausting, lying in bed all the time. Let me sit in my armchair for a bit.” Sherlock walked protectively by him into the sitting room and settled him with many pillows. “Mmm. You don’t know how good it feels to sit up for a change,” John said contentedly. 

Sherlock was encouraged. His friend was more awake and alert than he had been since The Accident, and his colour looked better as well. He sat in his chair across from John and gazed at him thoughtfully. “Mary will be pleased. She said you needed to get up and move around more.”

John looked thoughtfully back, measuring Sherlock’s mood. “How is it going, with Mary living here? I know it’s only been a day, but are you okay with this arrangement?” he asked with concern.

Sherlock considered his answer carefully. Mary did things Sherlock could not do: she took care of the port site of John’s drainage tube; she changed his bandages; she monitored his medications; she kept a record of his vital signs. “She serves a useful purpose,” he replied at last, and John chuckled.

“She serves a great many useful purposes,” he agreed cheerfully. “I hope to spend the rest of my life proving useful to her, as well. But that isn’t what I asked, is it?”

“If it weren’t for Mary, you’d still be in hospital,” Sherlock commented, as if that answered John’s question. “You couldn’t have come home.”

“True,” John nodded. “But still an evasive answer. It’s different, having a third person living here. You’ve been put out of your room and your privacy has been invaded. Are you okay with that?”

What did John want him to say? Sherlock liked Mary well enough, and she was not as intrusive as she might have been. “She is important to you, therefore, she is important to me,” he said at last. John smiled, recognizing Mary’s own words being used.

A comfortable silence floated between them; they were so attuned to one another that they did not need words to be companionable. Sherlock felt the comfort and contentment that his friend always brought and was grateful this had not been lost to him. But still, there was that annoying, underlying nag of guilt. He dropped his head back ruefully and sighed.

“You need to let it go, Sherlock,” John said gently. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Stop reading my mind!” he snapped irritably. John just smiled.

“It doesn’t take a psychic. I know you feel responsible for what happened. But you shouldn’t. There’s nothing you could have done to prevent it happening. The fact is, Sherlock, if this was anyone’s fault, it was mine. I wasn’t taking the suspect seriously enough and let my guard down. It was not the kind of mistake a seasoned army officer should ever make, and I’m just thankful I hurt only myself and that you were uninjured.”

This irritated Sherlock a good deal. “That’s nonsense, John,” he growled. “It all happened much too quickly for you to have been able to avoid it. On the other hand, if I had put the knife in my pocket rather than carrying it in such a dangerous fashion . . . .”

“No, no, no,” John argued. “You were doing your proper job; I wasn’t doing mine. Why, you might have been killed through my inattention! If that thief hadn’t been such a coward, he could have taken advantage of our being a tangled heap on the floor and finished us both off.”

“If I hadn’t been distracted. . . .” Sherlock countered.

“Good lord, you two,” Mary’s exasperated voice interrupted the self-blame session. She appeared in the doorway and shook her head at them. “Everyone knows The Accident was entirely MY fault for letting you two out of my sight for more than five minutes.”

Sherlock stared at her incredulously, but John snorted with laughter. “I’m sorry, love, did we wake you?”

“You did, but that doesn’t matter,” she said in quiet earnest. “What does matter is that you both understand how completely ridiculous you are. It makes as much sense for you two blame yourselves as it makes for me to take the blame. The bloody thief is the one who did this to us, and he’s being prosecuted for it. So let it go, for heaven’s sake, and let’s have some tea.”

She wandered into the kitchen and put the kettle on. The two men looked at each other in silent amusement. 

“She has a . . . forceful personality,” Sherlock commented. “It’s refreshing.”

“She has at that.” John leaned forward towards his friend, winced, and changed his mind abruptly about leaning, resettling back onto his cushions. “But that doesn’t make her right,” he added. “She wasn’t there. She didn’t see what really happened.” Sherlock agreed. But her words had sent his mind off into another direction entirely. The bloody thief is the one who did this to us. . . . To us. To John, and to Mary, and to himself. Us. His heart inexplicably warmed as he pondered being considered part of an “us”.

Mary soon returned with the tea, handed each of her boys a cup, and sat on the floor at John’s feet with her hands wrapped around her own mug. Leaning against John’s knee, she looked up at him seriously. “Remember the poem I read to you that I said reminded me of you?”

“Invictus”, by Henley,” John nodded, amused. “You misquoted it, as I recall.”

Mary chuckled. “I changed some of the words to suit me, yes. Remember the last line? You are ‘the captain of your soul’. You two like to think you’ve got everything in your life well in hand. But things happen that are entirely out of your control and there’s nothing you can do about it. What you can control is your response to your circumstances. That’s being the captain of your soul.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping their tea and looking at the fire. Sherlock noted that Mary had already learned how to fix his cuppa just the way he liked. Us. John and Mary would be married soon and would move to Mary’s flat. But she considered the three of them to be Us. He was surprised at how serene he felt about that, in spite of the foreign taste of the word. Mary was right. He could not always control his circumstances. But he could control his own reactions to them. He realized that his sense of guilt about hurting John had been linked to his own unsettled feelings about losing his flatmate. But he wasn’t losing John, was he? He was gaining a new friend. He found himself feeling pleased about that in spite of himself.

The fire was dying and the sky outside was growing grey. Mary finished her tea and stood up and stretched lazily. “I have to go to work in a few hours, I’m sorry to say,” she said regretfully. She brought them each a second cup of tea and said, “I think I’ll try to get a bit of a kip before I go in to work. Good-night, Captain.” She bent and kissed John thoroughly.

“Good-night, Sweetheart,” she said to Sherlock, kissing him on the cheek. “Be kind to yourselves. I won’t stand for anymore self-recriminations.” She disappeared up the stairs.

John chuckled at Sherlock, bemused. “Since when does she call you ‘Sweetheart’?” he grinned.

“Since when does she call you ‘Captain’?” Sherlock returned sharply, embarrassed. He did not want John to know about the panic attack he’d suffered the day of The Accident, which Mary had somehow cured him of with her kindness.

“I AM a Captain,” John reminded him, keeping a straight face. “Or, anyway, I was. So my new nickname suits me, doesn’t it? I guess that means your nickname must suit you, as well. Maybe I’ll start calling you . . . .”

“No, you won’t,” Sherlock said sternly. The two stared at each other for a long moment. And then they began to giggle uncontrollably.

“Only in front of Anderson,” John chortled, barely able to speak.

“You ought to have seen Donovan’s face when Mary called me that in hospital,” Sherlock admittedly, suddenly able to laugh at the memory. Something tight in his insides suddenly released, and he felt better than he had since that horrible day of The Accident. 

John grasped his sides in pain. “Ah, laughing hurts,” he gasped. He looked at Sherlock with affection. “I’ve slept too long; I won’t be able to sleep now. But you go ahead, if you’re tired. You haven’t slept properly since . . . it happened.”

He hadn’t; although how John, who had been unconscious most of the past week, knew this, Sherlock didn’t know. But he was wide awake now and filled with relief that life seemed to be reaching equilibrium once more.

“I’ll read the newspapers to you,” he offered. John lifted an eyebrow at this role reversal—reading the papers aloud to Sherlock over breakfast had been one of their rituals almost from the beginning of their relationship. However, he settled himself to listen and sipped his tea. In his most mellifluous, melodramatic voice, Sherlock began to read the headlines, pleased to make his friend snort with amusement at his theatrics.

And gradually, John dropped off to sleep in spite of himself. Sherlock smiled gratefully at his friend, this part of the ‘us’ whom he’d almost lost, and realized that the feedback loop in his hard drive had resolved itself, replaced by a more gentle and pleasant memory of friendship and caring. Perhaps he HAD made a mistake—an almost fatal mistake—but how he coped with it now was what mattered. How THEY coped with it. Perhaps that was what an ‘us’ was meant for; helping one another cope. It was a new idea to ponder, anyway.


	6. Mrs. Hudson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find Mrs. Hudson's reaction to The Accident, and Mary draws her into the family circle.

She sat pensively on the sofa and watched John dozing peacefully in his armchair. Helping to look after a doctor recovering from a stab wound was probably not in the job description of the usual landlady, but Mrs. Hudson had long ago abandoned conventions when it came to her tenants. It did her good to see John sitting up and with good colour in his cheeks, and so she gazed on him to her heart’s content while he slept. 

Her mind wandered back to that horrible evening over a week ago, when that nice D.I. Lestrade had knocked on her door to tell her the news. She had caught a fleeting glimpse of Sherlock bounding up the stairs, wearing a hospital gown over his trousers and smelling strongly of blood and sweat. As Lestrade explained the situation to her, she found herself growing more and more angry with her boys. Running headlong into danger! Heedlessly chasing desperate criminals! Playing with guns and knives! What did they expect to happen? Of course one of them would meet with catastrophe! And did they give a thought to the anguish their careless actions might cause to those who loved them? Of course not! They did whatever they wanted, didn’t they, without any consideration for anyone else.

But then Sherlock had stampeded back downstairs, clean-smelling and still damp from his rushed shower and change, looking like a frightened little boy who knew he’d done wrong and dreaded the consequences. And her motherly heart melted, and she hugged him tightly and assured him everything would be all right.

That kind, handsome D.I. Lestrade had then taken her and Sherlock in his police car back to the hospital to see poor, dear John. There Mary was, eyes red and nose runny, looking exhausted; and there was Molly, red-eyed and concerned; and Mrs. Hudson’s blood pressure went up again. Those boys! Always dancing on the edge of calamity! Leaping joyously into danger with both feet, and never thinking to look first! Did they ever consider the worry they caused? What if John had died? What would she and Mary do then? Could those boys not think ahead to the disastrous consequences their chaos might cause?

But then Mary had ushered her into John’s room, and she had looked down at that nearly bloodless, unconscious face. And she was a goner. Because she loved her boys with all her capacious, motherly heart, and not even a strong sense of self-preservation was going to change that.

It had been a week of cooking, and of running to hospital and back: baking things she thought Sherlock might be tempted to eat; making sure Mary was fed and allowed time to rest; bringing John soft foods he could easily digest. Because, could she allow them to try to subsist on hospital fare? Of course not! Now it was lovely to have them home again, where she could keep a proper eye on things without wasting hours on travel. Looking after this threesome was a full-time job!

Mary’s key was heard in the door and Mrs. Hudson rose to greet the girl. 

“Oh, Mrs. H.! I’m so glad to be home! How are our boys getting on?” Mary asked as she hugged the older woman. Mrs. Hudson’s heart warmed. Our boys!

One thing Mrs. Hudson appreciated about Mary was that she was wasn’t selfish about John. So many of John’s previous lady friends had not been willing to share John’s time and affections with anyone else—not with his best friend, and certainly not with his landlady! Mary, however, understood that John was loved by many people and never sought to interfere with the others who had claim to him. In fact, she actively worked to establish relationships of her own with John’s friends. Mrs. Hudson found this to be both wise and caring on the young woman’s part.

“John’s been up and walking several times today,” Mrs. Hudson told the young doctor. “He fell asleep there about an hour ago. I tried to get him to go to bed, but . . . ,” she shrugged helplessly.

Mary chuckled. “Try getting John to do anything he doesn’t want to do,” she agreed. “I often wonder how he has the nerve to accuse Sherlock of being stubborn when he’s the embodiment of stubborn himself!”

“And Sherlock went off with Greg on a case,” Mrs. Hudson continue her report. “I nearly had to push him out the door, but I was determined to get him out of the house, for his own good. He hasn’t seen the sun in over a week!”

“Good for you!” Mary praised. “You’re quite right, it’ll be the best thing for him.” She turned her gaze upon her sleeping fiancé. “I hate to wake him, but it’s time to change his dressings. Captain,” she bent over him and breathed in his ear. “Wake up, Captain. Time to play doctor.”

“Mmm,” he mumbled and opened his eyes, smiling. “Hello, love. Whatever you say.” He got up with effort and bit of help and moved slowly to lie prone on the couch.

Mary turned to Mrs. Hudson and winked. “See, what did I tell you? Try getting him to do anything he doesn’t want to do!” She pulled her medical bag out from under the chair and got down to business, cleaning the port of his abdominal drain, changing his bandages, all the while chatting casually about her day. Mrs. Hudson was impressed with the young doctor’s professional proficiency. John might have been just another patient to Mary, while the landlady nearly swooned every time she saw that horrid tube coming out of her dear boy’s insides.

“There, that’s a good boy,” Mary teased when she’d finished, and helped him back to his beloved armchair. “You deserve a sweet for such exemplary behaviour.” She sat on the arm of his chair and, leaning backwards, lightly kissed him, all professionalism out the window.

John’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “I’ve been exceptionally good all day,” he informed her gravely. “I think I deserved a great many more sweets than that!” He pulled her down into his lap with more agility than he ought to have had, given his injury, and kissed her soundly. 

“John, stop! You’ll pull your stitches,” Mary scolded, laughing.

“Might be worth it,” he chuckled, kissing her again. 

Mrs. Hudson blushed to see such antics. “Really, dears, can’t this wait until after dinner? I mean, at my time of life. . . .”

John smiled up at her sheepishly. “Sorry, Mrs. H. I just haven’t seen her all day, you know.”

Mary extricated herself from him gently and got to her feet. “It’s all right, dear. It’s just part of his physical therapy,” she grinned. The two women went into the kitchen to begin dinner.

“It’s so good of you to let me move in, Mrs. H. I know it’s not meant to be a three-person flat,” Mary said as they worked.

“Oh, it’s no trouble, dear. After all, if not for you, poor John would still be stuck in hospital. And to be honest, it’s rather nice having another female about the place. There’s a bit too much testosterone bounding about than I would like, some days, with the two of them.” She said this wistfully, however, unable to mask her feelings. “I expect I’ll miss all the carryings-on when there’s just Sherlock here with me,” she admitted. “I’ll miss you both.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson!” Mary cried tenderly, putting her arms around the older woman. “I’m not taking him away from you! He’ll be here every day, working with Sherlock and helping you out around the house, just as usual,” she assured her. “And I’ll be here a great deal as well. You’ll likely get to dread the very sight of me, I’ll be here so often!”

“You might think so, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said practically. “But marriage changes people. Old friends just sort of fade away and you make a new life for yourselves.”

“Not going to happen!” Mary declared staunchly. “Anyway, you’re not ‘old friends’; you’re family! You can’t get rid of family, can you? Not even if you want to!”

“I suppose not, dear,” Mrs. Hudson conceded, but she was unconvinced. She’d lived a long time. She’d seen it happen over and over again.

“Which reminds me,” Mary went on. “You know I lost my mother when I was very young. I’ve had to celebrate every milestone of my life without a mother to share them with me. And I’ve had quite enough of that! Most girls get to plan their weddings with their mothers: would you consider helping me to plan mine? It would make me so happy if you would.”

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Hudson gasped. “I would be honoured, dear. I’m very touched that you want me to.” She dabbed at the tears that sprang into her eyes. Perhaps Mary was right; perhaps she wouldn’t have to learn to live without John and Mary in her life. Mary seemed determined to keep the little family together, didn’t she? “Have you set a date?”

“We were thinking of having it in five weeks’ time. John should be recovered enough by then,” Mary told her. “I have three weeks’ vacation coming to me, and John has had to quit his job already, due to the Accident. We’d like to have the reception as a picnic in Regent’s Park. . . .” On she went, asking her landlady’s opinion on flowers and food and dresses and music.

Five weeks! Mrs. Hudson’s brain shifted into over-drive as she began thinking of all the details that would need to be seen to in such a short amount of time. “Here’s what we need to do first, dear,” she began. And so they spent the rest of the evening finishing dinner, making lists, and chatting as if they’d known each other forever. It was a warm and comfortable feeling, very much like being part of a family. Mrs. Hudson thought she could easily get used to it.


End file.
